


broken, lovelorn on your rocks

by margosfairyeye (Skittery)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Come Marking, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Held Down, M/M, Mild Blood, Mind Control, Minor Injuries, Misunderstandings, Playing fast and loose with mythology, Sharing a Bed, Siren Jaskier | Dandelion, Sirens, Smut, mild dubcon, not between Jaskier and Geralt, obligatory bath scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:08:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23366704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skittery/pseuds/margosfairyeye
Summary: Jaskier notices the moment the stranger comes in.  He’s getting better at this, telling humans from those who are more, the way that Jaskier is.  It’s something in their smell, the way he can feel them cross the edge of his vision, and when the witcher comes into the inn, he feels interesting.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 27
Kudos: 660





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> more specific content warnings: there is a (short) scene where Jaskier uses his siren power to coerce a stranger into sex and two other strangers into killing each other; there is also a scene where Jaskier thinks his power is affecting Geralt. If you skip the scene with the strangers, it does not affect the story (each scene starts with — — ).
> 
> Thank you to [zade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zade/pseuds/zade) for being an excellent beta, as always.

Jaskier notices the moment the stranger comes in. He’s getting better at this, telling humans from those who are  _ more _ , the way that Jaskier is. It’s something in their smell, the way he can feel them cross the edge of his vision, and when the witcher comes into the inn, he feels  _ interesting _ . 

Jaskier’s been at this particular inn for a few days, and he’s getting bored. He misses the sea more than he thought he would when he decided to leave, to seek out something new and different and exciting. The discovery that he could still tempt people with his singing even while on land—although not to the extremes as he could at sea—was exciting and fun for the past few months of traveling, but now it’s growing old. Jaskier wouldn’t have thought it possible, but there it was. He’s tempted so many into his bed, so many quick indulgent fucks, and he’s incited brawls in every town he’s touched, but he feels like something is still missing. 

And the quiet, white-haired man reeking of danger, and also maybe onions, slinking into a table far in the corner feels like an opportunity. 

Jaskier plays through his prepared nonsense distractedly. He’s been doing a kind of experiment, to see how much he needs to inject into his singing before people perceive the magic behind it, or rather, how much he can get away with if he pretends to just be a normal troubadour. He wants to appear as normal as possible, as  _ human  _ as possible, so he sings with feeling but almost no magic, and the result is a startlingly strong failure.

Food flies at Jaskier’s head and he stops playing, trying his best to look like nothing more sinister than a failing musician. Clearly what he’s been doing is getting him nowhere, but looking at the witcher, he can feel the turning of tides, the fork in the stream of his life, and he runs towards it with enthusiasm. He approaches quietly, and thinks he’ll never get away with it, he’ll be scented out immediately as a monster, even if his monstrous tendencies have been intentionally subdued. Jaskier is old enough to know that he’s playing with fire by even approaching, old enough to know what he’s approaching, and how quickly it could all come crashing down around him.

But it doesn’t, not entirely, not the way he fears. He’s either much better at playing human than he expected, or Geralt just doesn’t give him enough attention to notice the signs that he isn’t human. The fact that he starts to suspect increasingly that it’s the latter bothers him, of course it does, because his attention is entirely on Geralt, but it keeps him from being discarded or worse, so he swallows his pride. 

It hadn’t occurred to Jaskier that keeping his true nature secret wouldn’t be the biggest challenge, that it would be the war between his instincts and his feelings. Jaskier doesn’t know what would happen if he sang to Geralt the way he sings to others when Geralt isn’t nearby, but he wants to; he wants to know if Geralt would fall under his spell like they do, if Geralt’s face would slacken and his eyes would shine with lust and magic, if he would bite his lip until it bled, if he would listen to Jaskier’s suggestions unquestioningly, his arousal prominent as he pressed himself against Jaskier. Jaskier wants to know, but he feels how empty it would be, the shadow of what he actually wants. 

They travel together, and when it’s late and Geralt leaves him to find comfort in someone else’s bed, Jaskier steals into alleyways and dark corners and sings, quietly but with the full force of his voice, pulling in the first man or woman or both who happens to pass by. He pulls them to him and sings them song of truths that bring them to their knees, and when he fucks them he tries not to compare their faces to the one he’d rather see. 

Not to say he doesn’t take his own pleasure from his random entanglements. He does—it’s what he’s wired for, and he drinks in the passions he brings to the surface. Sometimes it’s sex, and sometimes it’s the thrill of violence, watching people as they pour frustration and anger into their fists. Sometimes he joins those too, and later he slips out of alleys with his face red and swollen, with blood on his fingers. He heals quickly, though, enough that Geralt doesn’t notice or he just doesn’t care, and they go on just as they are. 

It’s not sustainable, and Jaskier knows that, but every time he thinks about leaving, seriously leaving Geralt, his chest seizes up and he forgets how to breathe, and he stays. He’ll have to go back to the water sometime—he knows that—but it’s never the right time. Deep down, he wonders if it will ever be the right time, or if he’s destined to die somewhere on land, to waste away, to be discovered and discarded while Geralt simply watches. Jaskier tries not to think about that. 

— — 

They arrive at the inn after dark has already fallen. Geralt’s injured, although he insists it’s nothing. Or rather, he insisted it was nothing the first time Jaskier asked, which was right after he appeared bleeding profusely from his side, and has only responded with unhelpful grunts each subsequent time Jaskier’s asked, even when Jaskier tried to explain he was just asking for songwriting research. Which means that at the very least, it’s bad enough that Geralt doesn’t have the energy for witty rejoinders. 

Geralt doesn’t exactly fall off Roach when they finally see signs of life (or at least of lodgings), but he doesn’t exactly  _ not _ fall either, so Jaskier is worried, even knowing that Geralt heals as well if not better than he does himself. Still, healing well isn’t the same thing as healing quickly, and Geralt takes the arm that Jaskier offers, leaning against him as they lurch into the inn. Jaskier would love to say it doesn’t make him wish that Geralt was (temporarily) hurt more often. 

“Hello-o,” Jaskier says, beaming at the tired and suspicious looking innkeeper. “Two of your most habitable rooms, good sir!” 

The innkeeper looks between them and scowls. Jaskier sincerely hopes it’s not because Geralt is bleeding onto his doublet too much. “They’re all booked.” 

Jaskier sighs dramatically. “Fine, two of your least habitable rooms, then.”

The innkeeper’s scowl deepens, and Jaskier wonders if Geralt would notice if he just sang them a little bit of complacency from this annoyance. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls in warning, and Jaskier has to suppress the impulsive shiver that comes with hearing his name on Geralt’s lips. Jaskier sneaks a glance at his companion. He’s looking at the innkeeper; he looks exhausted. “We can pay.”

Jaskier digs some coins out of his pocket and drops them on the bar, resenting the fact that they’re being treated as though they’ve got to prove something—apparently, he’s got to put a little more feeling into his next epic. 

“I’ve only got one, but it’s yours,” the innkeeper says, sweeping two rooms’ worth of coins into his hand.

Jaskier sputters the beginning of an argument, but Geralt’s, “Hm,” and the hand on his arm is firm and clear— _ Jaskier, stop talking _ . Geralt asks for ale and hot water to be brought up and grabs the key from where the innkeeper throws it on the bar, making as though he’s leading Jaskier even though the brunt of his weight as he leans for support never leaves Jaskier’s side. 

They make their way upstairs slowly, and the constant contact is starting to get to Jaskier—he swallows against a feeling that’s partly concern and more fully want—his throat prickling with the desire to sing. Jaskier keeps his lips determinedly shut until they’re safely in the room, and Geralt steps away, holding onto a wall for support instead. 

They both survey the room, standing just a few feet apart, Geralt leaning heavily against the wall. It’s not as bad as Jaskier suspected, although it’s by no means  _ nice _ ; just a thick-walled free-standing tub, a basin, a chair beside a tiny table, a dwindling fire, and a sole bed sitting in the middle of it all. Jaskier swallows again, he hadn’t even considered that aspect of it. 

He’s thinking of a witty way to say he might be forced to sleep on the floor on account of his inescapable lust for his companion and his dwindling self-control when there’s a knock on the door. Geralt’s close enough to just pull it open without moving himself off the wall, and a couple of servant girls filter in, shooting nervous glances at Geralt as they deposit a jug on the table and slosh hot water into the tub. 

It’s ironic, Jaskier thinks, that they fear Geralt and nod politely at  _ him _ , when Geralt goes out of his way to avoid hurting humans and Jaskier is the one whose darkest desires would see their blood staining the cobblestones outside. 

The girls leave with nervous giggles and the sudden silence of the room falls across Jaskier like a net. His eyes drift longingly over to the tub; Jaskier always feels the most comfortable when he’s back in the water, and the bath is enticing—fill it with enough bath salts and it would almost be as good as the sea. He licks his lips.

“Hm.” 

Jaskier glances over to Geralt, whose eyes are following his own. 

“You can bathe first, if you’d like,” Geralt says, groaning as he starts to remove his outer layers of armor. 

Jaskier considers. It’s tempting, so tempting. Geralt is standing only feet away from the tub, and from the ginger way he’s moving, he’s not going to be leaving that spot of wall for a while. Which means he’ll have a clear view of the tub if Jaskier gets in, a clear view of Jaskier...and a clear shot once he sees how Jaskier changes as his skin hits the water. His arousal mixes with fear. He can’t let Geralt know, not now that they’ve been traveling together for long enough that it would feel like a meaningful omission. Better to just avoid the water completely.

“In the interests of both of our noses, I’ll cede the pleasure of bathing to you,” Jaskier says, trying to hide his regret behind humor. 

“Hmm.” Geralt frowns, but doesn’t press the issue. He continues to undress, dropping his clothing and armor on the floor.

Jaskier turns away when he’s down to his smallclothes, more out of self-preservation than anything else. He hears Geralt splash into the bath, and the grunt as he sinks in combined with the soft sounds of water moving around him is painfully sexy. Jaskier wants to look, so he tries to busy himself with  _ anything _ else—polishing and tuning his lute, looking out of the tiny window, testing the questionable comfort of the bed by sitting and bouncing on it until the motion starts to feel lewd, and—

“Jaskier.”

He looks up. Geralt is staring at him from the bath, his skin shining with soap and water and firelight. Jaskier swallows. This is what he wants: he wants to touch all of Geralt’s skin, to run his fingers and his tongue along it, to sing a song of sweet seduction that would bring Geralt to his knees, that would make him  _ want _ the same way that Jaskier does. Instead, he blinks and puts on a human facade of innocence and asks Geralt what he wants. 

“Make yourself useful,” Geralt replies, beckoning him over, his eyes never leaving Jaskier’s face. “Help me up.” 

Jaskier reaches the edge of the tub and tries to keep his eyes plastered to Geralt’s face, instead of all the other parts of him that are on display, endless shining skin. Geralt leans heavily against him, dripping water onto the floor and onto Jaskier as he maneuvers himself out of the bath. Jaskier feels hot, his skin prickling where the water droplets touch it. He leans over to grab Geralt a towel and lets his eyes roam, just for a second, drinking into the hard lines of Geralt’s body, the movement of his neck as he swallows, and the giant gash in his side. 

“Fuck,” Jaskier whispers, his fingers reaching out as though to brush over the wound while Geralt wraps a towel around his waist. Jaskier’s arousal somewhat gives way to concern, but not entirely, his association of sex and blood too deeply engrained.

Geralt hums in agreement. “It’s not as bad as it looks. Just hard to reach.”

It takes Jaskier a moment to realize he’s asking for something, to translate the statement into a request for additional help, help that involves Jaskier touching his bare skin, if only for medical reasons. But still. “Yes, right, of course, hard to reach, absolutely,” he babbles. “I am well-renowned, I’ll have you know, for not only my poetry but my ability to be extremely helpful in hard to reach situations.” 

Geralt shoots him a questioning look and Jaskier wishes he sounded just slightly less like a madman in his bid to cover his actual responses to seeing Geralt half naked and injured. Geralt rummages in his bags and comes up with a vial of viscous liquid that he deposits in Jaskier’s hand before seating himself on the edge of the tub. 

“It’s a salve, you just have to rub it over the wound.”

Jaskier bites down the flirtatious reply that’s sticking in his throat. The bottle is cold, and the liquid in it is almost iridescent. He has only a brief thought of how he should not be touching things without making sure they won’t hurt him, since he’s fairly certain none of the Witcher’s potions are intended to be touched by his natural enemies, before the salve is slipping onto his fingers. It burns, and Jaskier swallows the pain as he rubs it onto Geralt’s skin, grateful that he’s far enough behind Geralt that his facial expression can’t be seen. Geralt sighs out something close to a moan as the salve seeps into his skin, and Jaskier forgets about the burning on his fingers as he tries to commit the sound to memory. He wonders if people would be receptive to a ballad about the sounds of a healing Witcher, or if this is more of a niche interest. 

“There you are,” Jaskier proclaims, making a show of going to the smaller basin and wiping his hands off on a towel to draw attention away from everything else happening with him. “Better?”

“Better,” Geralt grunts, and Jaskier keeps his eyes averted while Geralt drops his own towel in favor of clean underthings. He runs his fingers through the water in the basin, cold and pleasant; Jaskier sighs. 

Awkwardness hangs in the air until they both remember the warming ale on the table, and Jaskier plays his part exquisitely, getting louder and jollier and more talkative even though it would take far more alcohol to get him anywhere near drunk, while Geralt’s replying grunts increasingly take on a hint of a smile. 

Jaskier is almost enjoying himself when Geralt laughs and then touches his wound, cringing, and both of them seem to realize that the ale is gone and the fire has burnt down to embers. Geralt nods at nothing and pulls himself up from the chair he’s been occupying, slipping instead down onto the bed next to Jaskier. Jaskier stiffens, assuming somehow that the issue of there being only one bed in this room would never come up, that one of them would choose to leave and find accommodations elsewhere, that the issue wouldn’t resolve with him sitting on the edge of the bed while Geralt lies down on the other side of it. Jaskier thinks he’s never held his muscles so still, trying to prevent himself from sinking down into the warmth emanating off Geralt’s skin. 

“Bard.” 

Jaskier nods without turning. He should leave, go out and use up the energy that’s been building inside of him since they walked into this inn. 

“Lie down,” Geralt says slowly, “or sleep on the floor, if you want.” 

Jaskier should leave. Staying is dangerous, for both of them. But he can hear the edge of sadness in Geralt’s voice, of resignation; he’s expecting Jaskier to leave, or to sleep on the uncomfortable slats of the floor, rather than lie close to him. It occurs forcefully to Jaskier that both of them are lonely; that while Jaskier looked across the empty expanse of the sea and _left,_ fitting himself easily into society, Geralt has always been here, looking across an empty bed or table, waiting for someone to not say no before he offered them coins; that if he was actually human, he might be scared or repulsed by Geralt, but he’s not human, and all he feels is warmth, recognition and want, even if it’s just this and nothing more. Jaskier turns around and lies down on the bed. 

He can hear relief in Geralt’s slow exhalation, can feel the air shift as Geralt relaxes his muscles. Neither of them actually sleep very much, but it doesn’t matter. 

Geralt’s eyes almost seem to glow in the dim light, and Jaskier watches him blink slowly a few times. He can’t tell if Geralt is actively watching him back, or if it’s just that there’s nothing else to look at. 

Geralt reaches down to the bottom of the bed and pulls a thin cover over both of them. It seems to solidify how close they are, how close Geralt is  _ letting  _ him get. Jaskier decides to press his luck, just a little bit, just to see how far it will go. He reaches out and runs his hand lightly along the healing wound on Geralt’s side. Geralt doesn’t flinch away, his eyes close and stay closed.

“Is this okay?” Jaskier asks quietly. He’s not even sure what he’s asking. It’s ridiculous—he’s used to being in charge of situations, he’s used to bending minds and moods to his own desires. He  _ could _ probably be in charge of this one, but instead he’s asking for permission. How did he get here, cautiously waiting to see what will be allowed?

“I’ll live.”

“Excellent.” Not the answer he was hoping for. Jaskier lets his hand drop, and pretends that the noise Geralt makes in response is more than just acknowledgement that he’d spoken, pretends that the loss of his touch is worth  _ something _ . 

“Can I ask you a question?” Jaskier thinks this might be a good time to talk about things, to try to find out more about Geralt’s past, to add pages to the book he’s writing in his mind, a tuneful biography. After all, this is about the least hostile interaction they’ve had so far. 

“Hmm?”

“What was your childhood like, growing up as a little witcher?”

Geralt’s breathing slows, either in advance of actual sleep or a good imitation. “Jaskier?” 

“Yes?”

“Go the fuck to sleep.”

Jaskier huffs but stops talking, letting himself slip into a half-sleep, closing his eyes but staying conscious of Geralt’s breathing, of his slight movements on the bed, of the heat that pours off of him. Neither of them sleep much, and Jaskier thinks Geralt must be just as aware of this as he is, but both of them pretend, and neither says anything about it to the other. 

The next day, Jaskier writes a sad song about sleepless nights, and Geralt never says a thing except for a crack about how he can’t understand why anyone is paying Jaskier for such nonsense. His wound heals after another night, and they simply move on.

— — 

The alley is dark. Not the dim but still well-traveled dark of the street at the alley’s mouth, but a deeper darkness, one that feels palpable and all-consuming. Jaskier sinks into it as if it were water; fuck, does he long for the water. 

He stands in the darkness, letting himself breathe. It’s ironic, he thinks, that if Geralt had just dropped him back in the water after the djinn attack, it probably would have assisted in his healing much more quickly and effectively than taking him to that damn sorceress had. Instead, his body is superficially healed but  _ wanting, _ still wounded in the parts of him that aren’t human, that aren’t clearly visible. 

Jaskier pretends that this is the reason he’s feeling the way he is—run down, and weak, and like he has to do something or he’s going to combust. He pretends it has nothing to do with Geralt tying himself to Yennefer, nothing to do with the realization sitting in his stomach that Geralt could have tied himself to  _ Jaskier _ if he’d wanted to, to save  _ him  _ that way. He leaves Geralt and goes out alone, stalking through the streets until he finds an alley that feels out of the way enough for him to do what he needs to. 

He waits until he feels the presence of people out on the street, until he hears their distant steps coming closer; he waits and then he sings, letting his voice out in full, putting into it all of the feeling and magic and breath that he can. It’s quiet, concentrated on the unknown targets, filled with command and pull but barely audible until they come close. Jaskier feels his instincts take over, pushing his conscious mind away, the one that knows it’s wrong to give in this much, that it’s risky. While he’s singing, the risk feels small, insignificant; there’s nothing more important than the song, than the sharp intakes of breath he hears as the men—at least three of them—approach him, walking into the alley without knowing why.

They stop directly in front of him, their faces slack and their eyes shining, focused on him. Jaskier keeps singing, breathing in deeply, keeping them under his thrall as they all disappear into the darkness. This, this is what helps him heal, this is what makes him whole. 

Jaskier adjusts his inflection and one of the men, the one closest to Jaskier, falls to his knees on the pavement, while the other two suddenly look towards each other, rushing together in a blur of hands and lips. Jaskier sings, letting his eyes drift over the strangers as they start removing clothing, drinking in the energy of it. 

The man on his knees nudges closer to Jaskier and Jaskier lazily unlaces his pants, pulling himself out as the stranger hurriedly takes Jaskier’s cock into his mouth. Jaskier sighs. He’s hard, of course, feeding off of energy like this, and the attentions of the strange man send a shiver through him. He feels  _ good _ , and strong, overwhelmingly so. 

His song changes, just barely but enough. The two men stop touching each other and start to argue, throwing venomous words that turn into punches. Jaskier doesn’t touch the third man, but leans into his ministrations as he watches the other two fight. It’s delicious, the way his words, his melody, can control their motions; the thick, heady taste of their energy as they draw the first drop of blood. Jaskier’s singing dips into a moan, the tenor of it blending into the song, his every motion and sound becoming part of his call. 

Jaskier keeps singing until bones snap, until the man below him is rutting madly against his own hand, until the men fighting are grappling on the stones of the street. He sings until they smash each other’s heads against the ground, until their blood runs like rivers between the stones, until the air is filled with sex and blood thick enough to taste, filling Jaskier’s senses as he sucks it in like a starving man. 

It’s almost enough for him to feel like himself again, almost enough for him to feel strong. It’s enough to continue this life, this charade he’s built beside Geralt—and that’s all that matters. 

Jaskier sighs and spends down the third man’s throat. It’s enough, for now. The man’s eyes are glazed over and Jaskier knocks him gently to the side with his foot. The man hits his head and crumples to the ground beside his companions, who are still bleeding into the street. 

Jaskier bends down to wipe the man’s mouth, and lets his voice die out. It’s a shame, that they had to die, that the last one will wake up tomorrow with no memory of this and probably spend the rest of his life wondering if he killed his friends. It’s a shame, but inevitable. Jaskier has to feed, once in a while, to survive. 

He feels high, powerful, in control. He tucks himself back into his pants and laces them up, then steps over the prone figures in the alley and walks back out into the street. He’ll go back to Geralt tomorrow, but tonight he’s not Jaskier the hapless bard, he’s Jaskier the siren, and he revels in it. 

He hums a tune as he walks the silent streets of this nameless town, safe in the knowledge that he won’t be found, that he left no trace of himself, that it will be just one more strange death in a world full of monsters. He hums as he walks, living in the memory of how it felt to really sing. 

— — 

Jaskier is sitting in their shared room, which has become something of an unspoken norm— simply because it's cheaper than two rooms, of course. Jaskier feels a quiet thrill every time an innkeeper looks at them with obvious judgement, every time someone silently supposes they're  _ together _ . Jaskier takes his pleasure recently from simple things, while denying himself the fuller pleasures that might give him away, that might make him feel like less than the human he wants to be, the human Geralt thinks he is. 

He's sitting in a corner, picking chords out idly on his lute and trying to ignore the fact that Geralt is in an adjacent corner of the room, bathing himself and stretching his muscles after his earlier fight. Jaskier sings quietly with the strings while sneaking glances, his self-control already at its weakest. 

Jaskier sings about nothing in particular, intentionally putting no feeling behind it, and imagines how it would be to touch Geralt's skin—and not the hurried touch of necessity when he's injured, or the accidental brush of a hand while they sleep—to touch and to let himself sing truly, to pull Geralt in and get lost in the feel of him. He watches Geralt bathe and thinks of running his fingers and his tongue along Geralt’s exposed skin, along every inch of him, breathing him in until there’s nothing left of Jaskier’s world except Geralt. Jaskier watches and he wants him, like nothing Jaskier has ever wanted before, not the predatory tug in his gut he hides away, but full and all-consuming wanting—for Geralt to touch him back, to want him and press their bodies together and know him fully, as no one has ever known Jaskier, as no one ever can. 

Jaskier loses himself in his thoughts and realizes that Geralt has risen out of the bath, a thin towel wrapped around his waist and is staring directly at him. He startles, his thoughts stuttering as though caught in a net, his voice slowing in the middle of a verse but not stopping, and he realizes too late that he’s put the wanting into his song, that Geralt must have let his guard down and he’s  _ singing _ to Geralt without any distractions around them, without watering it down. Fuck. 

Geralt walks towards him purposefully, and Jaskier tries to instill something else into his voice, something other than the raw  _ want _ , but Geralt is barely dressed and wet and approaching him with a look in his eyes that Jaskier hasn’t seen before, and doesn’t know how to interpret. Except he does, because he  _ sang,  _ and apparently Geralt isn’t as far from human as he likes to think. At least not when it comes to this.

He should stop, he should leave; but then Geralt is standing directly in front of him, his towel at Jaskier’s eye level, his breathing labored. Jaskier scrambles up from his chair, because the view is really not helping his self-control. Geralt doesn’t back away, though, he leans forward and Jaskier silently thanks and curses the chair for preventing him from being backed up flush against the wall. 

Geralt presses one hand against Jaskier’s cheek, and it’s warm and firm and calloused and Jaskier leans into it. Geralt growls Jaskier’s name softly. They’re close enough for Jaskier to smell the ale lingering on Geralt’s breath, to feel the heat of it. Geralt inches closer and Jaskier lets him, losing himself in the wanting, the possibility of being wanted back. He looks into Geralt’s eyes, and they’re bright, shining almost, despite his pupils being blown out—too bright. 

Geralt leans in, so close, his other hand finding purchase on Jaskier’s waist. Jaskier breathes shaky melody onto Geralt’s lips. He can feel the determination in Geralt’s movements, and he wants to sink into it, but Geralt’s eyes are still open, and they’re  _ too bright _ like magic and— Of course they are. 

Jaskier turns away, his voice falling silent. He lays the lute on the chair behind him and presses his hand against Geralt’s chest, pushing him away so Jaskier can slip out from where he’s been caught. His chest aches already, the wanting mixing with something stronger, and something like loss. 

“Hmm,” Geralt says, and it’s both a question and an assessment.  _ Why not? _ his expression says, and Jaskier imagines in his face a reflection of his own sadness. He only imagines it, though. 

“Ah ha, Geralt.” Jaskier tries not to choke on his words, on the disappointment and the regret mixing into them. “Not that I’m not ah, flattered but you don’t really want to do this.”

Geralt frowns, his eyes still shining, his body turning towards Jaskier like a magnet. “I do.”

Jaskier feels like he might be ill, like he’s going to crawl out of his skin. He wants nothing more than to believe him, to press himself up against Geralt and take what’s being offered—but he can’t. He won’t. 

“Geralt, someone must have drugged you or something, or that monster put a spell on you—your eyes are all,” Jaskier shudders for effect, “crazy and shiny.”

Geralt’s frown deepens. “I feel fine. Besides, witchers are immune to magic like that.”

_ If only they were _ , Jaskier thinks as Geralt takes a step forward. His magic works strongest on humans, but Jaskier knows other creatures have bent under it, too—he’d never tell Geralt, but he’s calmed monsters for him, helped subdue them while Geralt was out of earshot, to keep him safe. 

“You don’t look fine, you look like you’re being controlled by magic,” Jaskier says quietly. “You can’t make any decisions when you’re like this, it wouldn’t be right.” He forces a laugh. “Neither of us have enough virtue left to counteract such a decision, after all. You should probably just—sleep it off.” 

Geralt says nothing and Jaskier moves impulsively closer and runs his fingers lightly through Geralt’s hair, brushing it back along his neck and caressing his cheek. More than likely, when the spell wears off he won’t remember any of this anyway. Won’t remember Jaskier touching him like this, or how he leaned into the touch, humming quietly. Jaskier’s heart is sinking deeper and deeper. 

“Sleep it off,” he whispers, dropping his hand from Geralt’s face. “I’ll be back later.” 

It’s only the magic, the stupid fucking magic, that causes Geralt’s soft sound of longing when Jaskier drops his hand, that caused any and all of this, and it’s nothing but unfair. Jaskier’s been a monster his whole life, but now he feels like it, tricking his only friend, even if it was accidental. 

He has to go out, to find someone else to sing to, someone else who will be tempted, who will tell him he’s beautiful and who will lead him to a bed where he won’t feel bad because it doesn’t matter, and if he’s thinking of Geralt the whole time, no one will know but Jaskier. Or he would sing a restless song and start a tavern brawl, feeding off the energy of fighting as much as he would off that of sex. Either way, Jaskier needs to get out of this room, before his heart or his resolve breaks.

Trusting that Geralt will still be under his thrall enough to follow the command to sleep, Jaskier grabs his lute and leaves. He wants to look back as the door swings shut, but he doesn’t. He turns and walks away from Geralt for the rest of the night and doesn’t look back. 

— — 

_ If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands. _

Jaskier stalks off but doesn't go far, watching through thorny bushes as Geralt collects his things and heads back down the mountain, trying to ignore the fiery loss in his stomach, in his chest. He crouches there until he's sure they're both gone, Geralt and Yennefer, and then he walks over to the cliff's edge and sits, humming half-heartedly. He thought he would never have to feel like this again—useless, monstrous—and the sting of Geralt's words penetrates deep into the parts of Jaskier he's denied for years in order to be near Geralt. But now, what's the point in denying anything, any part of himself? He kicks a large stone, hoping petulantly that it hits Yennefer on its way down. 

"Still here?" 

Jaskier turns and glares at Borch making his way over. Somehow, Geralt's acceptance of  _ him _ , the quick acknowledgement of what makes a monster before immediately throwing Jaskier to the wind, somehow that makes everything worse.

“Leave me alone. Can’t you see I'm sulking?"

Borch smiles and comes to sit next to him. Jaskier wishes he'd just fled down the mountain instead of letting the others get a head start. Just in case he fell apart too completely. 

"Isn't that sort of puerile for someone our age?"

"Well, Geralt and Yennefer are doing it too, so—" Jaskier throws his hands out in emphasis, and then frowns at Borch. "Oh, very clever, then. So, you know what I am? Well congratulations, but seeing as  _ you're _ a fucking dragon who goes around setting trees on fire, I don't see how you've much room to lecture me."

Borch shrugs, clearly unbothered. It just makes Jaskier more unhappy than he already was. Oh to have thick and scaly skin that repelled other peoples' opinions so well. He wonders idly if there's a song in that.

“I had heard your reputation, for songs that sing truth.” He looks sideways at Jaskier, raising an eyebrow. “Flying sort of close to the sun there, aren’t you?”

“I can take care of myself. Better than you, apparently.” He gestures half heartedly at the body count behind them. 

Borch laughs knowingly. It makes Jaskier feel like a child. “Perhaps. I'm far older than you, Jaskier. You didn't even believe my kind existed, and I'd already had you made."

Jaskier frowns. "I believed your kind died out. And you can't blame me for playing a role, as if you didn't get Geralt up here by playing your own."

"Yes, we are similar in that way," Borch muses, "but I am still far older than you, and I know things you cannot yet know."

Jaskier decides to humor him. "Like what? Are you going to throw me a nice, tidy moral to make me feel better?"

"No. But I am going to tell you that the pain you're in will not last forever. And you will not be alone in it, at the end."

Jaskier scoffs. "What does that even mean? You gave Geralt and Yennefer straight enough answers about their lives, why is mine all twisty?"

"You're different than they are. Like me, you were human second; they were human first. Human lives are clearer." He pauses, letting it sink in. Jaskier wants to push him off the cliff, just a little. "And we aren't the same as them, no matter how much we wish we were."

"Oh, go sit on your egg and let me be." Jaskier starts to sing quietly, not putting too much feeling behind it, but enough that he can feel his words bending through the wind, carrying down to people far below. They won't hear the words, but they'll feel it, the pull—they'll call it wanderlust, or the call of the wild—and if he stayed long enough, they'd come. 

Borch shivers and raps his hand not too lightly. "Stop that. I've had enough humans up here to last me decades." Jaskier stops, swallowing, emotion filling his eyes, and Borch's expression softens. "Leave this mountain, little siren. You belong near the sea; you'll heal better there."

Jaskier nods, because it's true. He belongs near the sea—he's been away this long because Geralt avoids it, and because Geralt filled up his senses in a way that eclipsed the loss of the water, but now—he has no more reason to stay away from it. He sees a flash of another life, one where Geralt took his offer and they went to the coast, one where Jaskier threw caution to the wind and was rewarded, not scorned. A fool’s dream.

He nods again, picks up his lute and starts walking down the trail. He feels empty; he knows where he's going and why, but he doesn't know if he'll have the strength to sing once he's there, or if his voice will stay here on this mountain, in the moments before Geralt wished him away. 

He might just lie down in the water and let himself waste away, or he might put away his kindness towards humans and become the monster he's expected to be. Either way, it doesn't matter. No one will care what he does anymore. Jaskier walks down the mountain and wonders if he'll ever find anyone who will. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here there be sex.

Jaskier hears him coming before he sees him. It’s been years, but he knows as soon as he hears his breathing, his footsteps on the rocks leading into the cave. Recognition blooms hot and heavy over Jaskier, and he keeps himself out of view, sinking into the water except for his eyes. He’s been in this cave for months; it’s a good one because the rocks at the mouth drop off into deep, black water scattered with sharp obstacles that eventually gives way to a rocky platform, deep in the cave—if someone is able to steer their boat close without capsizing on the rocks at the cave mouth, they would plunge into icy water, and by the time they’ve navigated the hidden rocks to reach the platform, they’re far enough in that escape is all but impossible. 

Jaskier waits in the water and watches the witcher climb over the rocks, trying to figure out his next move. He’s thought about this very thing happening, once or twice, since he and Geralt had forcibly parted ways—he almost wanted it to happen, for a while, wanted Geralt to see who he really was,  _ what  _ he really was. There was a part of Jaskier that thought Geralt would  _ want _ to find him, would feel badly and seek him out. But that part had slowly died out as he grew farther and farther away from pretending to be the human version of himself. As he gave himself over to his reality, Geralt had faded from his mind. 

But now, faced with the actual possibility of seeing him again, it feels like the thoughts are resurfacing, it feels like a wound being reopened. Jaskier watches silently as the witcher slips into the water, swimming closer while scanning the dark depths, until he’s close enough that Jaskier can see his white hair, can smell the familiar scent of polish for his armor and swords undercut with something herbal. There’s no mistaking that it is Geralt, here in his cave. Jaskier considers swimming away. 

Instead, he lets out a sound like a hiss, meant to repel instead of draw in. Geralt’s eyes fly immediately to where Jaskier is still mostly hidden by the water; Jaskier can see them glowing darker than normal, which he knows is the result of some potion—some potion meant for fighting monsters, for fighting  _ him _ . 

Geralt starts to swim towards him, and Jaskier dips his head lower in the water. Fuck—drawing attention to himself wasn’t exactly what he wanted. He moves quietly but swiftly, away from Geralt, luring him towards rocks that are larger than they look, that might prevent him from following too closely. Except that Geralt swims easily around them, like the obstacles are more of an inconvenience than anything else. 

Jaskier hisses again and Geralt growls in reply, and it takes all of Jaskier’s self-control not to start rapidly swimming  _ towards _ him.

Instead, he swims away, near the back of the platform where it touches the cave wall. He can see Geralt evading the rocks, his sword positioned for easy access on his back. Geralt pauses at the edge of the platform, his eyes glowing in the dim light. 

Jaskier slides up onto the rocky surface, slowly and carefully. He shivers as his body changes, the aquatic features slipping away into human ones, until he looks like a normal human. He reaches into a crevice in the cave wall and pulls out a small sword and pants, taken off of dead sailors and an overly ambitious knight who thought they could do exactly what Geralt is now trying to do. The problem is, Jaskier  _ knows _ Geralt, and he’s far stronger and smarter than those fools. 

Geralt climbs up on the rock and draws his sword. There’s a pause as Jaskier considers Geralt and Geralt watches him back, both of them dripping steadily onto the ground. Jaskier’s eyesight is as good as Geralt’s this close to the water, and he knows they can both see each other clearly; he sees every breath Geralt takes, hears his pulse flickering evenly. Jaskier wants to sing, he wants to send Geralt away or bring him closer, he wants to speak every word he’s held back since the mountain into existence right here.

He doesn’t speak first. 

“Siren,” Geralt says, his voice rasping. 

It’s impersonal, and cold, and Jaskier flinches. If that’s the way Geralt wants to play this, then fine. Jaskier can be impersonal and cold, he can be monstrous, he can be everything he isn’t so Geralt can feel justified in hunting him. 

Except, fuck that. Jaskier  _ knows _ Geralt, and the same way Geralt knows what to do to unnerve him, Jaskier knows what to do to make Geralt lose his righteous footing. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, like they’re meeting under more pleasant circumstances, and he can see Geralt’s expression shift momentarily before he paints the indifference back across it. Jaskier is going to chip away at Geralt’s armor of impersonal pretense with everything he has—that way even if he doesn’t survive this, he’ll be dying with truth on his lips, he’ll have said the things he’s always wanted to say, and the ones he’s wanted to say since they last time they saw each other. “It’s been a while.”

For a moment Jaskier thinks he’s not going to respond. 

“Yes.” Geralt is still making eye contact and he’s not attacking, which is interesting. 

“You were hired to kill me?” It’s obvious, but Jaskier likes the displeasure that flashes across Geralt’s face again when he says it. 

“Yes.” Geralt sighs. “You’ve been stupid, not careful enough.”

Jaskier hates that it stings, getting chastised like Geralt actually gives a fuck about his caution. He’s getting antsy—as much as he doesn’t want to die, he does kind of want to take a swipe at Geralt (not like Geralt wouldn’t deserve it) and he doesn’t want to be lectured like some kind of child. 

“Of course you’d resort to name-calling.” Geralt frowns at him. “Now are you going to fight me or not?”

“ _ Jaskier _ ,” Geralt says, and it’s so familiar it’s like a slap. All this time spent trying to forget Geralt, to convince himself that he didn’t care, that he’s better off alone, better off submitting to his true instincts—all this time and Geralt only has to say his name and all of that effort disappears, replaced by memories and heat flooding through his body. 

And Geralt is still standing there, not making any move to fight or do  _ anything.  _ Jaskier fucking hates it. 

“Are you going to fight me or not?” Jaskier repeats, slightly more forcefully. “Or maybe you’d rather I just sing to you?”

“That doesn’t work on me.” He takes a step closer to Jaskier, sword in hand but angled downward. 

“Right.” Jaskier laughs, even though it’s incredibly not funny. “Right, it doesn’t work on you, oh mighty Witcher. I forgot, you’re immune to everything, except you’re actually completely not, and I happen to know for a fact you’re not immune to this. Maybe you’re just afraid I could best you. I mean, you  _ lived _ with me for years and never knew I wasn’t just a normal human; maybe I’m just smarter than you, and you know it.”

It’s a stupid thing to say, and Jaskier feels appropriately stupid, but the tension is starting to get to him. And it feels almost good to knock Geralt down a peg or two.

Geralt is looking at Jaskier strangely. “I knew. I suspected, at least.”

Jaskier blinks. “What? Why am I still alive, then?’

Geralt’s face doesn’t change, but he looks away from Jaskier before he replies, like he’s almost unhappy about saying it. “You were my friend.”

It should make him happy, probably. It should make him feel less  _ something _ about Geralt, to hear him finally admit that they were friends, that there was something there that kept Geralt from seeing Jaskier as a creature even if he suspected he was one. It should make him drop his sword, and try to talk a different way out of this, but instead Jaskier tightens his grip. 

All he feels is anger. He’s angry that Geralt trusted him, and that he doesn’t anymore; he’s angry that Geralt wouldn’t directly call him a friend until now, when it’s too late; he’s angry because a part of him still wants to wrap himself in Geralt’s embrace and never move, and because that part isn’t as small as he let himself believe. 

“Oh, so this is how you treat your  _ friends,  _ huh? Blame them for all of your troubles and abandon them until you come back one day with a fucking sword at their throat?”

Jaskier leaps at Geralt, swinging his stupid tiny sword and hoping that if this is the end, it’s at least memorable enough for Geralt to tell the story, so that some poor asshole can make it into a ballad. 

Geralt easily parries, their swords clashing with a dissatisfying clink. Jaskier channels all of his confused feelings into his fighting, even though he knows deep down that he’s terrible at this—that he’s only not dead because Geralt is playing with him, that Geralt is staying defensive and allowing Jaskier to keep swinging at him. 

It only takes a few minutes before Jaskier fucks up his attack and barely avoids getting nicked by Geralt’s sword. He rushes backwards, breathing heavily. Geralt stares at him before starting to move forward. Of course, Geralt isn’t breathing heavily, he barely looks fatigued. The asshole. 

Jaskier backs up towards the wall, trying to buy himself time. Geralt’s approaching slowly, his eyes glued to Jaskier’s face. Jaskier waits, lets him get close—too close, leaving himself little room for escape, but there’s something hypnotic about watching Geralt stalk closer to him, and there’s that little part that wants to see what happens if he just  _ lets _ Geralt corner him.

“Don’t come any closer,” Jaskier says suddenly, surprised when Geralt pauses. “You should leave. You told me not to bother you again and I haven’t, so just—just leave me alone.”

Geralt shakes his head and takes another step forward. “I’m not leaving.”

“Leave me alone!’ Jaskier repeats. “Or I’ll sing, Geralt, I swear.  _ I know _ it affects you, no matter what lies you think you can tell me.” Geralt doesn’t move, and Jaskier puts just a little bit of song into his voice. “I want you to leave!”

“I told you. That doesn’t work on me, siren.” 

Apparently, it wasn’t enough song. Geralt keeps closer and Jaskier waits a beat before he starts to sing, really sing. He sings at Geralt and it’s a song of fever and confusion, meant to knock him off balance, to put him under Jaskier’s will. And underneath, just a little, it’s a song of loss and longing, the one Jaskier’s been holding back for so long. Not that Geralt will notice, or remember. 

Jaskier sings with his whole voice, putting all of his control and magic and emotion into it. He lets the sword drop down into the water. He doesn’t need it now, and he can retrieve it later. Jaskier has absolutely no doubts that this will work. 

Except that Geralt keeps moving forward, towards him. He’s walking slowly, but deliberately, and his eyes are still bright and alert when he stops, just a few steps away from Jaskier. Jaskier, who is unarmed, and who now has an armed witcher very close to him. Too close.

“Like I said,” Geralt says softly, lowering his weapon, “that doesn’t work on me.”

Jaskier should be frightened, and he is, but the truth of Geralt’s claim shakes loose another train of thought entirely.

“But. What about that one time?”

Geralt frowns. “What?”

“That one time,” Jaskier presses, feeling suddenly like he’s on the edge of something incredibly important. “We were at an inn, one of the not quite as shitty ones, and you were bathing and I…I  _ sang _ and it  _ clearly _ affected you. You nearly had me pinned against the wall by the time I realized and it was…” He pauses. “I ensorcelled you and it was terrible, and wonderful, but mostly just  _ terrible  _ and—”

Geralt is frowning more prominently now, and he lowers the sword again. “You didn’t  _ ensorcel _ me.”

“But—” Jaskier can’t grasp what’s happening, or why Geralt seems to still be in control of himself. “But I did, I  _ sang _ and you…“

Geralt is so close, much too close, and Jaskier can sense his pulse speeding up almost imperceptibly.

“You  _ sang _ _ , _ ” Geralt says, “to me.” He reaches out his left hand, briefly, like he almost wants to touch Jaskier, then lets it drop back to his side. Jaskier fancies that he sees something like pain crossing Geralt’s face. “It wasn’t magic. It was you, looking at me, singing  _ to  _ me, like you saw…something.”

Jaskier feels off-balance. He’s flung back into the memory of that night, of Geralt approaching barely dressed and warm and intense and how quick Jaskier had been to dismiss it, afraid of misusing his own power. Except that Geralt shouldn’t remember that night, actually. He shouldn’t remember because Jaskier told him not to, and he  _ does _ . He remembers enough to argue with him, in this fucking ridiculous situation, armed; enough to say something like that, that knocks Jaskier’s feet from under him. 

“So then why?”

Geralt’s face darkens. “I misunderstood.” 

Jaskier blinks at him. What? Everything he’s saying sounds like—it almost sounds like... Jaskier tries to take a step back, forgetting he’s at the edge of the platform—he needs to get some distance, needs to move away from Geralt and his hands and his eyes and his words that make no damn sense and sound almost like he regrets that night as much as Jaskier does. That almost—.

Jaskier opens his mouth to speak, to tell Geralt that he hadn’t misunderstood, or that they both had, at the least. That Jaskier had been afraid of taking advantage, that he only wanted Geralt if it was something Geralt actually wanted, not just something Jaskier could make him want. He wants to ask what Geralt meant, what he saw in Jaskier’s song, he wants to ask why he sent him away, why he didn’t care until there was a price on Jaskier’s head, until they became like  _ this _ . 

But Geralt is already moving towards him, the almost-pain Jaskier thought he might have seen on Geralt’s face disappearing into a scowl. 

“Geralt, wait!” Jaskier cries, cursing himself for throwing his stupid sword into the water as he peers over the ledge in hopes of finding and retrieving it in time. He had so counted on being able to ensnare Geralt with his voice, but even if that won’t work, his magic has other facets, things to use as a last resort.

Jaskier sings again, high and shrill and piercing, enough that the rocks shake and the water trembles, the whole cave losing its integrity. Pieces of rock rain down on them, and Jaskier remembers why this is a last resort—easy to break things, more difficult to actually aim the falling rocks. Or control how many crack apart. 

Geralt has inexplicably sheathed his sword, and is looking around almost frantically, apparently trying to determine how much trouble Jaskier has just thrown upon both of them. He steps closer, moving quickly out of the path of a falling boulder. Geralt meets Jaskier’s eyes, and Jaskier stops singing abruptly, startled by the intensity of the look, by how it seems to be driven by something other than pure duty or malice. 

“Geralt—“ Jaskier starts, and then cuts himself off. The rocks are still falling, the cave possibly collapsing entirely, and Jaskier feels...he feels sad and desperate and he’s not going to let both of them die without expressing  _ some _ of that. “It wasn’t a misunderstanding,” he says, yelling over the noise around them, “I was singing to you, I was looking at you, I wanted—”

Geralt looks at him strangely, and then Jaskier is cut off by a rumbling as the part of the ceiling right above them does give way. He barely has time to think, to register that he should be diving into the water at the very least, when Geralt leaps towards him, grabbing him by the shoulders and moving them both backwards and out of the way of the collapsing rocks. 

Jaskier lands on his back, hard, with Geralt on top of him, shielding him from the rocks. Probably just by habit, Jaskier thinks bitterly. He tries to keep his thoughts from lingering on the temporary closeness, but it’s a struggle when he can feel Geralt’s labored breath on his neck; a struggle when there’s the warm weight of him pressing down across Jaskier’s body. 

The sound of falling rocks dies down with a final crash, and Jaskier lets out a shaky breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He’s almost as winded as Geralt sounds, and it’s certainly not just because he’d been so close to being buried under a pile of rubble. 

Slowly, Geralt peels himself off of Jaskier, and Jaskier barely manages to bite down a sound of loss. Still, he only lifts himself partway, his legs clamped around Jaskier’s thighs, and his hands pressing Jaskier’s wrists into the rock.  _ This _ , Jaskier thinks, as he struggles to choose whether to focus on Geralt’s breathing or his hands or his thighs,  _ this is why I never wanted to spar with him _ . It’s too close, too much; Jaskier is fully pinned to the ground, unable to move his legs or arms, and his only defense is to bring the ceiling down onto them. Which he definitely doesn’t want to do while Geralt’s hands are occupied holding him down, while Geralt’s weight is pressing on him like this. 

“What—what are you doing?” Jaskier asks, swallowing down an incredibly ill-timed moan as Geralt turns his full attention to Jaskier’s face and leans forward just a bit, hips dragging across Jaskier causing unintended friction. Jaskier may be a siren, but even this is a bit much for him. 

“What did you say?” Geralt rasps, not breaking eye contact.

“Wh—what are you doing?” 

“No,” Geralt says, his breath hot on Jaskier’s face, sweet-smelling from whatever potion he’d taken when he came here to fight. “Before that.” 

“Oh.” Jaskier has never been this lost for words in his entire life, and now that he knows that he can’t smooth the situation with singing, he feels utterly out of his element. Except, he knows what he said because he’s been replaying every misstep he ever made with Geralt over the years. “I said you didn’t misunderstand. I said I wanted—” He trails off. Geralt’s eyes are fading back towards normal. Gods, Jaskier had forgotten how pretty they are. 

“You wanted what?” Geralt’s voice is quiet. 

Jaskier knows he’s standing at the edge of a precipice, and Geralt is the one who will decide what happens next. Jaskier’s voice sticks in his throat. He’s so used to lying about this, so used to telling himself it doesn’t matter.

And yet. 

“You,” Jaskier says, equally quiet. “I wanted you and I only meant to sing to myself, but you were so distracting. By the time I realized, by the time I heard myself, I was singing, really  _ singing  _ and you came over looking so wild I—” he falters momentarily. “I thought you were under my spell and I didn’t want you if it was only magic, I didn’t want—I didn’t want it if it wasn’t real.” 

Geralt looks down at him, his eyes now black ringed with gold, and Jaskier again imagines that he sees something soft in them. “You didn’t misunderstand.” There is a breath where neither of them say anything. “Do you still?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier’s attention flies back to Geralt, to the pressure on his wrists and thighs and the intent way Geralt is still staring at him. 

“Do I still—? You’re going to have to use a few more words than that.” 

He expects Geralt to look annoyed, but he doesn’t, just keeps his laser focus on Jaskier’s face. 

“Want me?”

Jaskier wishes he had the self-control not to sputter and gape in response. He feels caught, like Geralt was singing to  _ him _ , but it only lasts a few seconds before he gets control of his voice. “Yes, of course, yes, but—”Jaskier tries to gesture, but just ends up pressing his wrists uselessly against Geralt’s iron grip. His head is spinning, a pit in his stomach opening as he realizes that this, even if it feels like a dream, is years too late. “But I’m not who I was, Geralt. I’m…look at where we are. I’m the monster that you got hired to take out. I’m a killer and I can’t even apologize because  _ this is who I am _ .” 

Geralt frowns, raising his eyebrows as though he doesn’t believe him. 

“Do you know how many sailors have come here and never left? How many have fallen to blood and sex and anger at my feet? Do you know how many?”

“How many?” Geralt’s voice is deadpan, like he’s humoring Jaskier. 

Jaskier sputters, realizing that he didn’t think he was going to get a response and now has to deal with the fact that he doesn’t actually have a count himself. “I don’t know exactly how many but it was a lot. A  _ whole  _ lot and—it’s been years, Geralt. Years of giving into my instincts and of you not giving half a shit about me and—and just do it already, just end it—kill the monster and get your coin. That’s what you’re good for, isn’t it?“

“Jaskier.” 

Jaskier closes his mouth immediately. There’s unexpected pain in Geralt’s voice when he says Jaskier’s name, and Jaskier is suddenly not convinced that Geralt would be able to kill him, any more than he would be able to kill Geralt. The realization burns through Jaskier’s brain like a wildfire, destroying any coherent thought he might have had.

Geralt doesn’t say anything else, just looks at him, quiet and considering. He looks at Jaskier like he’s really  _ looking _ , and Jaskier stays completely still. All of the old feelings are rushing back to him, and he’s not sure how to stand in the face of it, but he can’t back down, not yet. 

“I do.”

“You do what, exactly?”

“Give half a shit. And you don’t look like a monster.”

Jaskier looks him dead in the eyes. How can Geralt sit here, in his godsdamn  _ lair _ for fuck’s sake, and say something like that? “I am one.”

Geralt considers for a moment. “I don’t care.”

He leans down abruptly and then Jaskier is being kissed, soft at first and then with more urgency. He doesn’t move, trying to process exactly what the fuck is happening. Geralt’s lips are warm and softer than Jaskier had imagined, and gods, has he spent hours imagining this. Jaskier opens his mouth to say  _ something _ , and Geralt takes the opportunity to slip his tongue between Jaskier’s lips. Every thought in Jaskier’s head dissipates, distracted instead by the sweet, satisfying movement of Geralt’s tongue against his. 

Jaskier can’t move his hands, his wrists held securely against the stone; he can’t move his legs, held down by Geralt’s weight. He keeps himself still, relaxing into Geralt’s control, and allowing himself little moans against Geralt’s lips. He’s completely at Geralt’s mercy, and he’s not afraid. The air smells of dust and the sea, and the warm scent of Geralt, and it’s more intoxicating than anything Jaskier has breathed in for years. 

Geralt growls, deep in his throat, and Jaskier can feel it reverberate again his chest, his lips. He moans louder, and Geralt drives his hips down against Jaskier’s. The scent of lust, of passion, swirls around them, and it has Jaskier hard instantly, although he’d be lying if he hadn’t been partially there since Geralt had pinned him down. 

Geralt breaks away from Jaskier to focus his attentions on Jaskier’s neck, sucking a bruise that sends sparks shooting down Jaskier’s spine. Geralt shifts Jaskier’s wrists to one hand and runs his other hand down Jaskier’s chest, dragging slowly over every rib until it’s pressing against his hip bone. Jaskier hasn’t been touched intentionally for years, and now it seems like he can feel every touch resonating through him. He’s almost afraid this will be enough to bring the rest of the cave down on them, but he doesn’t care, not as long as Geralt is scraping teeth against his throat and pressing their bodies together. 

Jaskier has been imagining this for years, for almost his entire life, but he still shudders when Geralt’s hand dips lower than his hip, teasing him through the thin fabric he’s wearing. 

“Geralt—” Jaskier never has trouble with words, but now he can’t seem to find the one he wants. Geralt stills, his hand dangerously close to Jaskier’s cock, his eyes flickering over Jaskier’s face. “Are—are you sure? What about your contract? This will lose you your coin and your reputation and—”

“Fuck it.” Geralt looks pained at the question, but the hard cock against Jaskier’s leg doesn’t flag. He dips his head down to Jaskier’s neck again, kissing lightly and speaking right up against his ear. “Some things are more important than contracts, or coins.”

The knowing laugh Jaskier tries for comes out as more of a squeak. Very dignified. Geralt’s hand creeps distractingly along the line of his waistband. “Like what? I—fuck—I  _ know _ you—what could possibly be more important than that?” 

Geralt runs his tongue along Jaskier’s earlobe and Jaskier shivers. “Like this,” Geralt says quietly, pulling Jaskier’s pants down and wrapping his hand around Jaskier’s cock.

It’s incredible: the way Geralt’s hand feels, the rough pull of his fingers along Jaskier’s skin, curling around his cock with just the right amount of pressure, stroking him like their whole fight has been building to this moment. Maybe it has. 

Jaskier twists one of his wrists free from Geralt’s hold, conscious that he’s only getting it free because Geralt is allowing him to. Jaskier moans, his freed hand reaching out for Geralt’s thigh, for anything he can grasp and touch the way Geralt is touching him. This has been building in him for so long, so many years spent beside Geralt, years of trying to hide himself, to keep himself from slipping and taking what wasn’t his. 

What now could be his, suddenly, with every stroke of Geralt’s hand, with every press of his lips against Jaskier’s skin. 

Jaskier presses his hand to Geralt’s thigh and feels Geralt’s breath shudder against his neck. He drags his fingers sideways, sliding against the fabric of Geralt’s pants until he finds the hard outline of Geralt’s cock and caresses it. 

Geralt growls low in his throat and straightens slightly, meeting Jaskier’s eyes as he does. He swats Jaskier’s hand away as he removes his own hand from Jaskier’s cock. Jaskier makes a noise that’s closer than he wants to a whine, his voice coming out high and needy. 

“Geralt, tell me honestly, are you secretly still trying to kill me? Don’t  _ stop _ —”

Geralt’s answering look is amusement mixed with arousal. “Relax.”

Jaskier hears the sound of moving fabric and cranes his neck up to see Geralt tearing at the laces of his trousers one-handed, the other hand still locked onto Jaskier’s wrist. It looks as though it would be easier with both hands, and it’s not as though he’s going to go anywhere if he lets go, but Jaskier likes it, the skin-on-skin contact, so he doesn’t say anything, leaning into the press of Geralt where their bodies meet, and bringing his hand tentatively back to rest on Geralt’s thigh. 

Geralt exhales in relief as he tears off his trousers, and then he’s leaning down again, his lips finding Jaskier’s, and this time Jaskier can feel the hot weight of Geralt’s cock sliding against his own. It’s enough to draw moans from both of them. 

Geralt wraps his hand around both of their cocks, loosely but enough to create friction and heat. His fingers swipe over the head of Jaskier’s cock where it’s leaking, and the slide of it all gets sweeter. Jaskier fucks into Geralt’s hand as Geralt presses his hips down towards Jaskier, both of them gasping as the air fills thickly with the scent of passion. 

Of course Jaskier feeds on it, he can’t help it. Everything he takes he returns tenfold—every moan, every cry, every whispered name, every harsh thrust of their hips. Jaskier feels drunk on emotion, on the tight slide of Geralt’s hand, on the weight of his body, on the way Geralt presses lips to his neck, his mouth. At some point, he realizes that Geralt has let go of his wrist and instead their hands are tightly clasped. 

There’s no cave, no ocean, nothing but the points where their bodies meet, nothing but the growls low in Geralt’s throat and the high moans Jaskier hears as though he’s outside of himself. Jaskier grips Geralt’s hip and digs his nails into the skin.

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls, and Jaskier meets his eyes—everything is hazy, but somehow still bright. “Let me hear you sing.” 

So he does. With their faces barely apart, their eyes locked, Geralt’s hand unceasing; Jaskier sings. It’s nothing like it’s ever been—there’s no nameless person, no violence to amplify, just pure, unadulterated lust swirling around him, catching on his notes. Jaskier sings of loss, and love, and finding again what was lost. Jaskier has never felt more like himself, never felt so much like he didn’t have to hide, and it’s incredible. 

Jaskier can feel when Geralt gets close, when his hips lose their rhythm and his breath comes faster against Jaskier’s face. Jaskier moans his name and Geralt comes with a cry and harder thrust of his body against Jaskier’s. It’s glorious.

Geralt stills for a second and Jaskier wonders if that’s it, if he’s going to just get up and leave and they’ll both pretend this never happened, and Jaskier will feed on this memory and stay dormant for a while. It would be okay, so much more than what he had before. 

But instead, Geralt lifts himself slightly and starts moving his hand again, clutching Jaskier’s cock more tightly, rubbing his own come into Jaskier’s skin. Jaskier gasps, and Geralt kisses him once before bending his head down to Jaskier’s ear. 

“You smell like you belong to me,” Geralt whispers, “you will for days.” 

Jaskier comes with a shout. 

Afterward, Geralt rolls off of him, tearing his remaining armor off before curling his body around Jaskier’s. Jaskier clutches the parts of Geralt that he can reach, his mind blank as he comes down. He wonders after a while if Geralt is even still awake. As the air clears, and he can think clearly again, the thoughts of what comes next scream loudly in his mind. The suspicion that this was a mistake Geralt will make only once, if Geralt lets him live at all; Jaskier is so sated he doubts he could move or fight, not that he regrets any of it. Jaskier never thought he’d get even this much, lying curled with Geralt, their come drying on his skin. 

“I understand,” Geralt says suddenly, “if you want me to leave.”

Jaskier blinks. “What?”

“Your scent changed.” He’s murmuring the words against Jaskier’s skin, but Jaskier can feel him starting to slip away already. “If you want me gone, I understand.”

Jaskier is so flummoxed he pulls away, so he can see Geralt’s face. “Geralt, you absolute ass, if you think you can blame  _ me  _ when you’re obviously planning on leaving me here or worse, you are sorely mistaken.”

Geralt frowns too, which just makes Jaskier want to smack him a little bit. “I’m not doing that.”

Jaskier throws his hands in the air. If he moves quickly, he can probably still slip into the water and swim away safely; Geralt was never much of a fast swimmer. “Despite all of this”—Jaskier gestures around at their current state—“I haven’t forgotten any of the things you said to me years ago. I haven’t forgotten that you told me to leave, or that you came here today to try to  _ kill me _ .” Jaskier sighs; he’s coming back to himself fully, and all of the pain he’d pushed aside feels brighter than it had before. 

“Jaskier—”

Jaskier laughs, but it’s hollow. He dangles his feet over the edge of the platform, ready to bolt and turns to look at Geralt one last time. “Don’t worry, Geralt, I know better than most that the things spoken in the heat of passion aren’t worth a thing once it ends. I won’t hold you to any of it.” 

Jaskier slips into the water.

He’s expecting the sharp focus that comes with being immersed, the physical changes, the way the water holds him like an embrace. He’s not expecting Geralt to jump half naked into the water after him. 

Which is why Geralt catches him so quickly, pinning Jaskier’s back against a rock while he treads water. 

“Jaskier.”

“Geralt.” Jaskier is intent on putting as little emotion into his voice as possible, he won’t give him the satisfaction. “If you want to kill me, just do it.”

Geralt frowns, and loosens his grasp. “I don’t want to kill you, I want—I want to apologize.” 

Jaskier isn’t expecting that either. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m—sorry.”

It sounds like it takes a lot of effort, and Jaskier giggles in spite of himself. 

Geralt rolls his eyes. “I’m trying to be heartfelt here, do you mind?” He nods as Jaskier regains his composure. “What I said to you all those years ago; I shouldn’t have said it, and I’ve regretted it ever since.” 

“Why didn’t you come after me?”

“I thought I didn’t deserve it,” Geralt says, his voice rough with unhappiness. “I thought you were better off without me, and then I became…less of myself without you.”

“See, now  _ that _ I understand,” Jaskier mutters. 

“Seeing you now, I… _ want _ , and I’m not telling you sweet lies,” Geralt says. “I want you to hold me to it. I want you to leave here  _ with _ me. I want to try all of it again, but this time will be different, will be better. I  _ want _ you with me. And it’s not just because you look beautiful when you fuck.”

Jaskier wonders if he’s imagining all of this. “You want me to come with you? And you’re not going to kill me?”

“Yes.”

“Geralt, think about it. I’ll always be this way, I’ll always need to feed, I—you don’t care that I’m a monster?”

Geralt doesn’t smile but his eyes soften in a way that makes Jaskier’s heart soar. “Do you care that I’m a witcher?”

“No, but—”

Geralt runs his hand along Jaskier’s chest, under the water, then down until he touches a scale, letting his fingers trail over it lightly. Jaskier has never been touched like this, not by someone who knew what they were doing, and it feels like nothing he’s ever imagined. He wants so badly for this all to be real.

“I want you exactly as you are,” Geralt says quietly. “I’ll even stay here, with you, if that’s what you want. Although,” he looks at the semi-collapsed cave, “I think we can do better.”

Jaskier laughs, and this time it’s more genuine, his voice ringing out melodically. Geralt’s hand hasn’t left his skin, and he’s saying things Jaskier has wanted to hear since they met, and it’s strange and wonderful. 

“I’ll still need to be by the water sometimes,” Jaskier says, because if he doesn’t say anything he’s afraid it will all slip past him. “And I will need to feed. I just—you’d better be certain.” 

“I am certain,” Geralt breathes, and then he’s kissing Jaskier again. 

Jaskier still has concerns, but he can feel in Geralt’s touch that he means it, at least right now. Jaskier has been alive for a long time. He’s seen the world change, as Geralt has, and he’s never been certain about anything except his own nature and how it relates to the rest of the world. He’s been alone for most of his life. 

But now, clutched in Geralt’s embrace, surrounded by water, Jaskier knows he won’t have to be alone again. He leans into the kiss, closing his eyes, and wrapping his arms around Geralt. They’re alone, but he could swear he hears singing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> I would love if you wanted to come say hi to me on [tumblr!](margosfairyeye.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Chapter two is finished and I will hopefully post it in the next week. Come say hi, I'm [margosfairyeye](https://margosfairyeye.tumblr.com) on tumblr!


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